


i dream of us

by roboticdisposition



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Fluff, M/M, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, well canon compliant up to s10 cos fuck that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22213468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roboticdisposition/pseuds/roboticdisposition
Summary: The five times Ian thinks of marrying Mickey and the one time he does something about it. (5+1)
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 31
Kudos: 158





	i dream of us

**Author's Note:**

> So firstly I just wanna say that season 10 does NOT exist because I am not dealing with any of that so just,,, we're ignoring her until they fix her.
> 
> This is canon compliant up to s10 because this is a sort of rewrite of what should've happened in regards to gallavich and marriage, because I repeat, FUCK season 10.
> 
> But really this is one of those things that wasn't meant to be this long but then it was and I am so in love with how it turned out, it feels like a dreamy recollection of their love story but it's told with the device of marriage as a centring point and how it crops up within their dynamic throughout their relationship. YES I'VE GONE OFF ABOUT IT COS YES I HAVE FUCKING FEELINGS AND THE WRITERS HAVE FUCKED IT FOR ME.
> 
> Anyway PS I'm British so ignore me if I fuck up the Americanisms or some shit.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this, sorry for popping off xx

The first time Ian thinks about it is late one night, lingering in the dugouts with sticky hands and Mickey’s fucked out laughter filling the air. He’s already lit a cigarette, holding it out to him like a peace offering, like he’s saying ‘you fucked me but I don’t love you’, and Ian takes it like he’s okay with that.

Only he’s not, not really. It’s not that Ian wants them to stomp around the Southside holding hands and waving fucking rainbow flags. It’s just that… he wants something. He wants something, because when he thinks about it, when he’s lying back in the dugouts, and he’s looking at Mickey with shut eyes and clenched fists, he thinks he loves him.

He passes the stick back and Mickey grunts as he inhales, puffing out white curls of smoke through his nose before blowing the rest away. Ian forces his eyes away and down into his lap, but he can still see Mickey, behind his eyelids, in his head, in his fucking dreams. He’s always there, and it’s fucking annoying.

It’s annoying because he can’t sleep without seeing his stupid crystalised eyes and he can’t stay awake because he’s itching to go see him. It’s fucking annoying. And Ian knows it’s unhealthy, maybe just a bit, maybe a lot; it’s not healthy thinking about a broken boy that he loves, knowing full well he’ll never be loved in return.

But it’s not like that stops him. He’s always on his mind, in his head, standing there in his fucking dreams. Mickey’s everywhere - he’s everything, Ian supposes. He wonders sometimes if it’s obsession, if it’s just teenage bullshit that he’ll look back on and shake his head, thinking himself a stupid boy who didn’t know any better. He wonders whether that makes any difference, whether it matters, whether it changes anything. Ian doesn’t think it does.

Because he loves him, really. He loves him, this fucking arrogant prick that fills Ian’s head with thoughts he can’t shake. This boy with gritted teeth and inked knuckles and a world that Ian wants to be a part of, this boy that’s tearing him apart without intent, without meaning, without even fucking  _ knowing _ .

So they’re sitting in the dugouts, and Ian’s calling it  _ their place _ , and he’s wondering if Mickey’s thinking the same. Only he’s kidding himself, because he knows Mickey isn’t - he knows Mickey’s probably thinking about the drug run Mandy’s told him about that Terry’s taking them on tomorrow, he’s probably thinking about whether he can get off again before they leave, maybe he’s even thinking about what the best way to break Ian’s heart is.

But Ian’s trying not to think of that, because maybe he’s hopeless, but maybe he just wants to dream. He takes the cigarette back off Mickey, grazing their knuckles together as he pictures the electric shocks of warmth that never follow. He drags in smoke through his lungs and looks out at the sky, the dark midnight that knows all his secrets.

And that’s when his thoughts turn to his dreams, midnight secrets, about a future he’ll never have. He thinks about Mickey, still gritted and inked only… softer now. Sitting back against a bed they share with covers drawn up to his chest, waiting while Ian cooks the eggs and brings them in on a plate. Smiling wide sitting in a bar with Ian by his side, paying for two drinks instead of one, knocking out any other suitors.

He dreams about what they could have, about a shitty little apartment without Terry and Frank and fucking Monica. A shitty little apartment they can call their own, with their own utensils and pans and bedsheets that feel soft.

So that’s when he thinks about it, about Mickey, standing in the bedroom of their shitty little apartment, with a ring on his left hand that Ian’s bought the week before. A white-gold ring that’s thin, but bright enough to glimmer when it catches the light. A fucking ring, that says it all. An engagement ring. And then a fucking wedding ring.

He breathes out the smoke he’s holding in his lungs, laughing bitterly at the sky, at the dreams he imagines, at the dreams he’ll never grasp. Mickey turns to look at him, squinting with furrowed eyebrows, but Ian doesn’t look back. He keeps his eyes on the night and locks it away, the dream, the shitty little apartment, the ring; and then he hands over the smoke.

-

The second time he thinks about it is when Mandy tells him Mickey’s getting married to that whore. He feels red-hot flushes down his chest and feels burning through his lungs. It feels like he’s filled with smoke, like someone’s pressing cigarette burns into his skin and curling the ash into his heart. It fucking hurts and it makes Ian hate Mickey, just for a moment, before he feels sad, but then he hates him again.

And he continues to hate him, through fucking Math and then the walk home, through the dinner Fiona makes him help cook. He fucking hates him, with this burning rage that hasn’t left him alone. He phones Linda and tells her he’s ill and there’s no possible way of him making his shift that night - he doesn’t even care that it looks bad, that he’s losing wages, that he’s lying. All he cares about is the sight that sticks behind his eyelids when he goes to bed early, the one of Mickey at the altar with someone that isn’t him.

It haunts him, all night, then all morning too. He doesn’t so much hate him anymore, he just hates what’s fucking happening to them. He hates that fucking day that caused this, when Terry walked in and… and… 

He hates that more than anything else. He hates it, he hates Terry and he hates the whore and he hates Mickey, only he doesn’t hate him. He loves him, he loves him too fucking much for this. He loves him and it fucking hurts. He loves him and he’s stuck sitting at the kitchen table staring at his eggs thinking too much about everything.

Because it’s changing now, what they have. It changed the minute the door opened and Terry walked in, the minute the whore walked in, the minute Mandy mentioned Mickey was getting fucking married. It’s changing and Ian feels like he’s losing his grip. He longs for those moments of bliss they had just before the explosion, the way he fell asleep with Mickey by his side and woke up next to him again. He thought it was fucking something, he thought it was fucking everything.

And now… and now… it’s gone.  _ They’re  _ fucking gone. Crushed up and ripped to tatters. And then Ian’s pinching his eyes shut and burying his head in his hands, and it’s like this wave of sadness crushes through his body and there’s water stinging his eyes and he’s biting his lip enough for it to bleed, and he feels lost. It fucking hurts, and he knew it would, after that day, with Terry and the whore and… and…

He just didn’t think it’d hurt this fucking much. That’s all.

So he rubs at his eyes and he tries to push it down, squash it and pretend he’s not bleeding out across fucking Chicago. He tries to push it down as he stomps to the building he knows Mickey’s in, he tries to push it down as he catches sight of him slumped in the corner, bottle in his hand, he tries to push it down when he follows him outside, and then he can’t push it down anymore. It spills out.

Ian barely feels the fist to his stomach, he’s too busy looking at him, at  _ his _ fucking Mickey, at this boy that he loves. He doesn’t feel the pain until Mickey’s turning around, picking up the bottle, and turning away again, and then he feels it like a fucking flood. He begs, and he begs, and he begs. He pleads for Mickey to say it, to say the three words that’ll make it better, that’ll give Ian hope. He just wants to hear it, something real, something he means.

He knows Mickey feels it, that warmth, that stupid fucking rush, Ian knows he does. It’s just harder to convince himself, when he’s watching Mickey walk away and his mouth’s bleeding and his ribs ache and now the pain isn’t only internal, he’s got the fucking bruises to prove how much it hurts. It’s different, and it feels like Mickey’s saying  _ no, I don’t love you, you’re wrong _ . And Ian’s too weak to tell himself otherwise, because Mickey’s marrying someone else and that’s as good of a signal he doesn’t love him as he’s going to fucking get.

Ian doesn’t remember how he gets up, how he stumbles home, but he knows he ends up in bed with a bag of peas pressed to his jaw and clenched eyelids filled with fucking despair. He’s fighting a losing battle, something he should give up and surrender - something he probably should’ve done long ago, it’s Mickey fucking Milkovich after all. He was never going to be loved by him, he was never going to be with him in the way that Ian wanted.

Only he can’t stop the pain, not that day, not when he shows up to the Kash ‘N Grab and Mickey’s not there, not when he sleeps and dreams of Mickey in a white shirt and tie, white teeth all shiny, staring at that fucking whore. It carries on, this numbness that lingers, that chases him through every motion, every feeling, every thought.

And then time’s suddenly up. Time’s up. And it’s Mickey’s fucking wedding day. And it fucking hurts, more now than it did then, because Ian can’t push it away anymore, he can’t pretend it’s all just some hideous nightmare. Now it’s real, and Ian’s sitting on the back step of his house thinking of Mandy with her hair done up and Mickey with his fucking suit and this whore in a cheap white dress.

It’s fucking real and it fucking hurts, and Ian’s wishing things were different, and he’s wondering if there’s anything he could’ve done to make it that way. He’s thinking about that day, with Terry and… and… he’s thinking of a life where he didn’t catch them, and they continued as they were, and eventually, Mickey would say  _ I love you _ and Ian would smile and maybe it wouldn’t be happy ever fucking after, but it wouldn’t be this. It wouldn’t be this eventuality where Mickey’s getting ready to stand at the altar to someone else.

Ian starts walking before he can think it through, all he knows is he can’t just sit back and do nothing. So he tries to do something, he sneaks in the back door and catches Mickey with smoke in his lungs, all wide-eyed and dressed out in a black suit, bowtie, and a blue fucking corsage. He fights like he’s dying, words crawling up his throat like they’re clawing him; he’s looking for something, something like hope, because he can’t give up, not really, not like this, but Mickey doesn’t give him anything.

Mickey calls it  _ “a fucking piece of paper,” _ and Ian thinks it’s done. It’s fucking done.  _ They’re _ fucking done - whatever they were in the first place is done. He turns away and feels something burning at his eyes, because this isn’t some nightmare he can wake up from, this is Mickey and this is some whore and this is a fucking wedding.

And maybe he’s stupid, when he feels something spark in his chest when Mickey opens his mouth again, only to say something stupid like  _ “we can still bang _ ,” because it’s not enough, it never has been. It’s not enough and it’s not the point. Mickey’s getting fucking married, fucking hitched, fucking whatever you want to call it. Mickey’s doing something Ian’s dreamed of, he’s doing it, suits and fucking bowties and fucking corsages, only the person the other side of the altar isn’t him.

So he begs again, because he is hopeless, after all, and he thinks this time it works. Ian’s pressed back into the wall with Mickey’s lips against his own, all spit-soaked and warm, his tongue licks into his mouth like he’s dying and Ian feels it amplified. His body shakes and his head gets fuzzy and he feels that spark flicker again, and it grows, and it grows, and he laughs when it’s over, giddy with it all.

It’s this childish excitement of it, because it feels like he’s won, it feels like he’s got him back, it feels like it’ll be okay after all. Mickey lights him a cigarette and Ian holds it between his lips as he drags his clothes back on, something warm settling the fires in his chest, mending together the blood that’s crusted around his heart. He thinks this is it, this is them defying this chain of events, doing things differently, making things right.

Until then it’s not, and Mickey’s opening his mouth again, saying  _ “I’ll get this over with _ ,” and Ian’s not catching up. Until then everything starts to crumble again and this sinking feeling gets stuck in Ian’s stomach and he can’t shake it out. He feels like the world is falling apart as he watches Mickey yank his suit jacket back on and take the cigarette back.

And then Mandy’s walking in and Mickey’s walking out and it’s as good as over. It’s done this time, for real. It’s shattered, like they’ve smashed the glass on the picture of that shitty little apartment Ian always dreamed they’d end up in. It’s torn up, that dream, that life, that hope. It’s dead and it’s lying on the ground and Ian doesn’t know how to get back from it.

He sits at the back and watches as Mickey stands in his suit and bowtie and stupid fucking corsage, and he watches as this whore walks down the aisle in white lace and meets him at the end. He sits back and feels his lungs go empty and his heart go stale.

The motions drag on and Ian feels his blood draining out of him, lightheaded and cold. He starts to hate him again, Mickey, because they could’ve had this, they could’ve done this, it didn’t have to fucking be this way.

Maybe he’s fucking naive and maybe he’s being stupid but it could’ve been different - Ian really believes that - they could’ve had that dream that he’s kept guarded in the back of his head for years now, with that shitty little apartment and softness that melts the ice and all that fucking shit. It could’ve been different, Ian tells himself again, like he’s forcing himself to believe it.

And then the ceremony is over and Ian’s grabbing the necks of every bottle he can find, forcing the bitter liquids down his throat in the hopes it’ll make all this go away. He feels everything start to lose its clarity, everything start to dim down into a noiseless buzz, but his head still pounds and his eyes still flicker and all he can fucking see is Mickey and that fucking whore at the altar.

So he’s clutching onto a bottle of Whiskey when he thinks about it again, pretending he hasn’t been thinking about it ever since Mandy came and told him about all this shit. He’s grasping at the bottle until his knuckles are white, and he’s thinking about it properly, about them, him and Mickey, in suits together - maybe he’d wear one light grey, and Mickey dark - with those stupid corsage type things.

He’s thinking about meeting him at the altar, all smiles and warmth and…. and happiness. He’s thinking about what he’d tell him in his vows, about Mickey telling him to fuck off, but then repeating his own back. He’s thinking about the rings, the ceremony - a fucking wedding.

Ian clutches at the bottle and takes another swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It’s over, he thinks to himself. It’s over, and his dream is shattered, left and buried. It’s over, so he lets the numb take over, he drains that bottle and feels something like Lip’s hands dragging him away from the bar, away from the place, away from the fucking night with a bloodied heart and weak body. He tells himself it’s the last time he’ll think of it again, that he’ll leave it dead and buried like Mickey has. He only half hopes it’s a lie.

-

The third time he thinks about it is when everything’s going at double speed, when he’s stuck between motions and doesn’t know whether he’s here or there or there or here. It’s all bright flashes and smiles and this endless high that makes him feel like he’ll never crash down. It’s fucking  _ euphoria  _ and Ian feels like he could do anything, like if he reaches hard enough then he’ll grab at the stars.

Mickey’s out at the Rub N’ Tug but he’ll be back any second, Ian knows he will be, he’s just got that feeling. So he’s dragged bacon out of the fridge and started frying it with some sausages and cracked eggs in another pan and put two pieces of toast in the toaster ready. He’s even got the butter out of the fridge in preparation.

Ian smiles as he grabs for two plates, serving them up, knowing Mickey will be back any minute and they can eat and Mickey can tell him all about his day and Ian can tell him all about his ideas and they can fuck on the sofa before they go to bed. He smiles and plates up Mickey an extra piece of bacon before leaning back against the counter, fumbling hands against the work surface as he twists his feet on the tiles. Mickey will be back any minute, he tells himself again, any minute.

He can’t put his finger on why he knows, he just does. It’s this instinct, when it comes to Mickey. Ian likes to think Mickey’s got it too - it’s the reason he found him in the club, the reason he brought him home, how he always knows what he needs without even saying it. It’s just instinct, it’s just natural, it’s just perfect how they are. They fit together, Ian knows that now. He’s not just saying it either, he means it - he  _ knows _ it. It’s the reason it’s been years since they met and they’re still in each other’s company.

Ian hears keys in the door and rushes to stand behind it, he’s got a pounding in his chest and he can feel his cheeks burning red. It’s excitement, he tells himself, it’s this bouncing feeling of anticipation and waiting and then Mickey’s stomping through the door and this warm feeling blossoms enough for it to feel like flowers are sprouting in his ribs.

He smiles and grabs Mickey’s shoulders from behind, wrapping his arms around him with tightly clenched fingers that barely even shake. He presses kisses across his shoulders and whispers kisses into his neck. Mickey grumbles but eventually turns in his arms to greet him with a proper kiss, all warmth and tongues and Ian thinks it’s perfect - he’s perfect. He thinks nothing’s ever felt so fucking perfect.

Mickey talks about how it smells good in there when he goes through to the kitchen and throws his jacket on the sofa, wide-eyed when Ian tells him he’s cooked it for him to welcome him back. It’s warm and it spreads throughout the last inch of his toes, this buzzing feeling he gets when Mickey smiles and says  _ “thank you,” _ and starts to shovel it into his mouth.

Ian grins all the way through the meal until their plates are clean and Ian’s heard all about the man that tried to fuck off without paying at the Rub ‘N Tug earlier on. He grins and feels so fucking alive it feels impossible. But it’s not, he reckons it’s just right, it’s so fucking good - they’ve finally got themselves back to them, back after Ian ran off with the military and Mickey got hitched. They’re back to being Mickey and Ian, without Terry and the rest of them butting in.

It feels so good, it feels so good that Ian doesn’t ever consider it’ll come down - that  _ he’ll _ come down. He’s never felt so fucking alive, and he puts it all down to Mickey, being with him, living with him, seeing him again after everything that happened. It’s all settled now, all stable, it’s just all… good. It’s just so good Ian doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to think about anything else.

But he does, with clean plates on their laps and smiles on their faces, because he’s always thinking of two things at once, about being here and there and there and here. He thinks about anything and everything, mostly about Mickey, about them, but everything else too. He’s got time for it now, without shit being all fucked and crazy, he has time to think at double speed, all hyper and fucking alive.

Ian looks at Mickey sitting at the opposite side on the sofa, his knife and fork crisscrossed on his plate. He looks so good, is the first thing he thinks, and the second is that he loves him. He loves him so immensely that he doesn’t think he can keep it all in, he can almost see it bubbling out of his pores and spilling out of his veins.

It’s just that it’s never felt so simple, so good, so real. It’s never felt so  _ right _ ; it feels like love for real this time, love like it’s meant to be. So he looks at him, this boy he’s starting to call the love of his life, and thinks he looks fucking good, and then he thinks he should fuck him before anything else can get in the way.

Mickey doesn’t complain, he just sits back as Ian starts to push their plates away and climb onto his lap, pressing his tongue into his mouth and dragging teeth over his lips. Ian reaches for the buttons on Mickey’s shirt and starts undoing them while Mickey drags his fingers through his hair.

It’s electric, this feeling, this moment. It’s never going to stop, it’s forever now, this is - they are. It’s endless - the fucking  _ euphoria _ . Ian fucks him like that on the sofa, with their plates pushed aside and kisses like bites pressed against Mickey’s skin. There’s love glistening on their skins, Ian can see it as much as he can feel it. It’s like this sparkling effervescence that lingers in the air even when they’ve left the room.

Ian just really fucking loves him, he loves him so much it’s almost incomprehensible, but he still feels it regardless. He feels it when they’ve finished and there’s cum between their bodies and he feels it when they take turns washing each other’s hair in the shower and he feels it when they fall into bed even though it’s only just getting dark. He feels Mickey’s hands softly stroking through his hair, all gentle like he’s trying to slow him down, but Ian’s still working at a thousand miles a second.

Mickey’s soothing though, with his hands and his body next to his own, his warmth carrying through the sheets as he curls his back into Ian’s chest, all pliable and soft and Ian fucking loves him. It’s this version of Mickey that Ian didn’t think he’d ever get to see, but now that he has, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to go without. He’s still gritty with his inked knuckles but he’s soft now too, soft in a way that keeps Ian grounded even when he feels like he’s so far into the sky he’s about to spin off the earth.

Ian fucking  _ loves _ him, he thinks to himself as he presses his nose into the back of Mickey’s hair. He’s still fidgeting even though they’ve laid down, even though he’s probably kneeing Mickey in the back of the leg and elbowing his spine. He just can’t keep still - he blames it on the coffee he drank before he made the bacon, he knew he shouldn’t have had that much caffeine so late in the day. Mickey doesn’t say a word about it though, only  _ “hmph’s,”  _ and rolls over so he’s curled into Ian’s front and he can hold his arms just a little bit more still.

Mickey’s hands are soft, even with the callouses and the roughened edges and scars, they’re still soft, and his thumbs are gentle as they run down his wrists and he soothes him carefully. And Ian tries to let his body sink into it, force his limbs to stop moving and keep himself steady, let himself rest, let himself  _ be _ .

And he manages it, sort of. His limbs stop moving, only a little shuffle here and there, and Mickey smiles into his neck like it’s a win, so Ian smiles back, burying it into Mickey’s hair. Only his mind is still whirring - his body’s stopped, but his head hasn’t. His thoughts spin around like they’re stuck in the washing machine and they’re bouncing on their heads and it’s chaos and cluttered and all soapy.

They’re a mess, is what he means, they’re all over the place, bouncing and jumping and being stupid rolling over the bed. His thoughts don’t make any sense, they’re too busy running and catching up with each other - it’s that same thing again, why think one thing when you can think of multiple? Only now he’s thinking of too many things and it’s like a light switch that won’t ever turn off.

But there’s clarity hidden in there, hidden deep, however. It’s startling, the thoughts when they jump forwards, they’re all  _ Mickey, Mickey, Mickey _ \- the rest bounce back into the distance. So Ian lies there with a barrel full of his thoughts, locked in his brain like they’re behind bars, and he thinks there’s no point sifting through them, so he thinks them all at once.

He thinks of Mickey’s smile, of Mickey’s hands, he thinks of Mickey’s jacket and whether they ever hung it up when he got in. He thinks of the food and the empty plates and the toast he forgot to ever actually push down in the toaster. He thinks about Mickey’s ass and Mickey’s dick and Mickey’s moans.

And there’s this one thought that beats them all, and it envisages him on one knee with a ring in his hand. So that’s when he thinks it, lying in bed, next to Mickey, next to the boy he loves so fucking much, the boy that makes him want to jump off ceilings and climb the fucking walls. He thinks it and thinks it and wonders how he’ll do it, because he will, now that they’re back together and there’s this euphoria. He knows he will.

So Ian thinks about buying the ring, phoning Mandy and dragging her back down to Chicago, and then the Northside, just so he can get her opinion; he about going around the ring shops and then ending up down the pawnbrokers. He thinks about picking out some old fucking Bonnie and Clyde type bullshit with old initials engraved on the inside - the wrong fucking initials though, because Ian thinks it’s cute.

And then he thinks about doing it, actually doing it, whether he’d light fucking candles or - or he could bake a cake. He thinks about doing it at the Alibi, forcing Kev to let them stay late so they can put on some old song and drink his top shelf and Ian can get down on one knee while Mickey chooses the next bottle.

It’s fucking ecstasy, the thought of it all. It’s pure and unadulterated thrill, like that feeling when you run from the cops only… better - he can’t put it into words. He’s too excited about it all, there’s this buzz in his veins and this bliss in his chest and it’s just so… right. It’s fucking perfect. Mickey is fucking perfect.

What happens next happens slowly, in a haze of fast-paced rhythms. It happens when he thinks there’s no need to waste any time: he could do it now, he could do it this second - only he doesn’t have a ring, only maybe that doesn’t matter. He could just do it, open his mouth and ask, say something fucking simple like  _ marry me _ because everything’s whirring too fast for anything deeper.

So maybe this time it isn’t a thought, maybe this time it’s a proposition, because the words do fall out of his mouth and they barely even get stuck in his throat.  _ “Marry me,” _ he says, smiling so wide he’s surprised his gums don’t hurt. He’s got this glow that’s centring him to this room, to Mickey. Only Mickey’s not looking at him the same. Mickey’s looking at him with a lesser smile, with tight lips and raised cheeks.

Ian tilts his head on the pillow to see him better - blames it on the fact that he’s just sideways, that he can’t see him clear enough - but he’s still got that sad-happy smile painted across his face. Ian goes to say something else, to add on  _ please, you know I love you, marry me _ , but he doesn’t get there in time.

Mickey strokes a hand down his face so gently Ian wonders if it was ever even there.  _ “Ask me another day, yeah? _ ” Mickey says, and Ian nods eagerly, not quite understanding, not quite catching on. He’s too caught up in this little heaven of warmth and love. He’s so caught up on it that he doesn’t even realise he’s falling, right into the jaws of the devil.

He falls hard, harder, until he’s crashing. Until he’s waking up the next morning and feeling like the ground has swallowed him whole. Until he’s waking up and he’s numb, settled comfy in the depths of hell.

-

The fourth time he thinks about it is under the stars, because of fucking course it is. Ian can’t sit under the stars and not think about it; it’s not even in the realms of possibility. But they’re under the stars, out of the van because Damien’s making too much noise, he snores like a fucking animal, he does. They’re under the stars and it feels like paradise before Ian’s eyes: the night lit pale somewhere far away from Chicago, staring at a road ahead - a fucking  _ future _ ahead.

Ian never thought they’d make it here, not after everything, especially not after his bipolar, not after he dumped him, not after Mickey ended up in prison. But they’re here regardless; and it feels like fate, he supposes, even if nothing’s ever gone quite right. It’s like Ian’s been wishing on stars for all these years and finally, one’s come true.

It’s not like everything’s perfect though, it’s not straight out of one of Ian’s dreams, because Mickey’s still on the run from the feds and Ian… Ian’s questioning whether he’s manic, crossing the border with only a week’s supply of meds - he doesn’t think he is, it’s just concern that he’s doing something stupid, fucking up something that was going good.

Except Mickey’s more than that. Mickey’s the best thing he’s ever had - ever even seen - so it’s different, he tells himself. It’s different, it’s not like they won’t have pills in Mexico, it’s not like he’ll never see his family again. It’s a fucking future, with Mickey. It’s something he’s always wanted, always dreamed of, so maybe it’s okay, even if it’s fucking stupid and he’s a little scared.

Ian smokes out the rest of the cigarette before pressing it into the bank and tossing it out in front of him. Mickey sighs and Ian catches him smiling out of the corner of his eye. It warms him from the inside, like he’s lighting a fire between his ribs, just under his lungs, and they’re sitting back in the afterglow. Ian lights another stick just so he’s got something to do with his hands, passing it off to Mickey after a while. He fumbles with his single beer bottle instead, handing Mickey another when he asks.

And then Mickey’s fist is hitting him in the arm, blunt and hard. The pain spreads slowly and Ian gulps back the mouthful of beer he had so he can fire something back at him, only he deflates before long, because Mickey’s looking at him like that, and he’s saying  _ “you never fucking visited me,” _ and Ian can’t fight that. It’s the truth, and somewhere along the way, he has to accept that.

He watches as the smoke mingles with Mickey’s breath across the horizon, he looks at this man he loves so fucking much, and regrets ever hurting him. It was never on purpose, he just seems to have a knack for it. The crickets chirp like they’re in a fucking pantomime as Ian’s body softens. He knows he has to confront this past -  _ their _ past, only it’s hard and he doesn’t want to. He just wants to stay in this bubble, with Mickey, with the road ahead of them, their fucking  _ future  _ ahead of them. But he can’t. It’s never that simple.

Mickey looks at him as Ian mumbles his way through an explanation - it’s not enough, he knows that, Mickey knows that, but when he turns away, it’s done with. It’s been put to bed, only the covers are creased and it’s not tucked in, and Ian knows at that point there’s always going to be this past, plaguing them, because they hold grudges, they don’t talk, and it’s never going to be perfect.

But they’re trying for it to be, in the night with the fucking crickets, because it’s as close as they’ve ever gotten to something more, something real. It makes Ian feel alive, fiery from his chest to his fingers and his toes. Mickey’s there, he’s fucking real, alive, he’s breathing, and Ian loves him so much that it grounds him.

Mickey keeps him from floating away with just his presence, he’s so familiar and he smells the same; he’s everything Ian’s ever wanted, and he’s sitting next to him, open and inviting and… and Ian’s wondering if this is a mistake. It’s not, in all senses of heart, in everything that matters, he supposes, but there’s a world of ‘what ifs’ that are screaming at him, forcing him to listen. Everything’s stopped them before, what’s different this time? Who’s to say the feds won’t catch up with Mickey, Ian will go off his pills, and they’ll never see each other again?

It’s little niggling doubts that stick in his head, that disrupt the smokey warmth Mickey helps to settle in his chest. He tries to push them away, thinking of the border, of Mexico, of the sun and the beach and a life away from Chicago, and it feels good, just… it’s the unknown. But it’s the unknown with Mickey, the love of his fucking life, so he thinks he’ll manage - they’ll manage. It’s enough.

Mickey exhales the smoke in his lungs and leans back into the bank, lying on his back with his hand sprawled across his chest. Ian takes the smoke off him and breathes in, lying next to him as inhales and looks up at the sky. The moon’s all pale but it’s glowing, as if it’s casting them in a light like hope. He breathes out and feels his chest fall with Mickey’s by his side.

And then they’re under the stars, lying back with the sky tinged with a glow from the moon that disrupts the darkness. They’re under the stars where they never thought they’d be, where Mickey from three years ago never would’ve lay, and it’s the start of something, something good and warm and bright. Ian thinks he’s delusional, but Mickey’s talking and he doesn’t have time to think, because it’s fucking  _ Mickey _ and he’s always been hopeless.

_ “You ever think, back in the day, this is where we’d be?” _

Ian smiles, breathless under the night. It’s a question Ian wants to answer by kissing him senseless, that he wants to answer by rolling over so he’s on top and nodding desperately while he holds his face steady. It’s a question Ian wants to obsess over, because Mickey’s opening up about the past, the future, it’s something so loaded and Ian doesn’t know what to say.

Because he did think they’d end up here, not perhaps on a detour on the route to Mexico, running from the feds, but here as in together, here with a future, he was convinced from the start. Ian saw a pasty broken boy with baggy jackets and black eyes and now he’s lying beside a man, with the same eyes and the same smile only more open, and it’s something straight out of his dreams.

But he doesn’t say any of that, because he doesn’t want to dig himself deeper into something like this, with him. With the boy who’s now a man, who Ian’s so terribly in love with. Instead he smiles up at the stars and says something about running from the feds. It’s easier that way, Ian thinks, even if it’s cruel, even if inside his head he’s thinking of the thousands of ways he wants to tell him he loves him again.

_ “You ever think ‘bout me, when I was in the joint?” _

Ian turns to face him, rolling onto his side so he’s watching the stars in Mickey’s eyes instead of the ones in the sky. He feels a piece of his heart crumble, in that moment, because it was him who planted that doubt in Mickey’s head, the doubt that made him think Ian didn’t love him, the doubt that made him believe he didn’t think of him, that he’d moved on, that he isn’t hopeless for this man for eternity. It’s his fault, and his stomach tightens at the thought of it.

Mickey doesn’t turn to look at him, he keeps looking up, looking forward, but Ian sees the worry in his knitted eyebrows and glassy eyes regardless. The worry that says  _ don’t tell me no _ , the worry that tells him Mickey’s just as hopeless as he is.

Ian nods, bringing his fingers up to brush against Mickey’s cheek. Mickey recoils at first, and Ian freezes, but then he settles, nodding, and Ian holds his face between cold fingers as he nods and tells him  _ “a lot.” _ Mickey inhales shakily, the breath warm against his cold lips. Ian watches as Mickey’s body relaxes, softens, sinks into the moment on the bank under the stars.

_ “Fuck, I missed you _ .”

Ian’s heart races into his throat, choking him with the confession. Mickey doesn’t say things like that often, not like that, with his breath narrow and his voice soft, whispered like a secret, like it’s something only for Ian to hear, only something for him to know. It makes him feel so sacred, and so monumentally fucking stupid to have left him and let him go jail.

His fingers press harder into Mickey’s cheek, his other hand coming up to tug him over so he’s lying next to him. Mickey searches Ian’s face for something, and Ian can only offer up a smile.  _ “I love you,”  _ he says, in a ghosted breath against Mickey’s warm skin. Mickey nods but doesn’t say anything else; his body’s warm by his side, with Mickey’s fingers clenched into the hem of Ian’s jacket, keeping him there, keeping him steady.

Mickey’s never looked so small, Ian thinks to himself, keeping his face between his hands like he’ll drift away if he lets go. The whole moment feels delicate, like the world knows they’re on unsteady ground and the stars are too distant to help them. It feels ready to snap, but they’re both clinging on for dear life.

It’s his fault, Ian thinks to himself, tossing the smoke still between his fingers down the bank. It’s his fault, that they’re here and not already there, that they’re on the run and he’s scared instead of being free and settled. Because they could’ve been, if Ian had fought for them, if he’d took his pills and he’d made Mickey fight and didn’t let him go to jail for something he didn’t fucking do. It’s his fault, and he supposes these are the consequences.

It’s not like he thought a night under the stars, a night with a road - a  _ future _ \- ahead of them, would’ve made it all better, but instead it’s made it worse, it’s reminded Ian that no matter what, there’s always the past, there’s always something, there’s always something that’s going to get in the way of them.

And he hates it, because he loves him, he’s so devastatingly in love with him. His fingers roll down Mickey’s face, watching his lips curl into a smile as Ian shuffles closer and slots their bodies together like it’s all meant to happen this way.

So he’s holding him close when he thinks about it, when he thinks about marrying him. And maybe he’s been thinking about it for years, since the diagnosis, since Mickey went to jail, but maybe he’s been denying it ever since. It’s always been there though, in the background. But now it’s different, because Mickey’s lying by his side, his face open and his eyes melting, and it’s all laid out in front of them, a plan, a fucking future, and it’s easier than ever to imagine marrying him.

It’s easy because it’s all Ian’s ever wanted, and now it’s a possibility. It’s written under the stars, it feels, because it’s never felt like this. He loves him, he fucking loves him and now he’s here, and he could marry him, and he will, he thinks to himself, he will one day, because that’s how it ends. That’s how it’s always going to end.

And that’s when the thought stops, because this isn’t the end, and if Ian’s honest with himself, it’s one hell of a fucking beginning too. It’s not what he imagined, when he thought of a life with Mickey, running from the feds in Mexico with Mickey’s cellmate as a passenger. It’s not what he dreamt of, late at night in his bed. It’s not what the fairytale wrote out. It’s not… it’s not the end.

So Ian thinks himself fucking stupid, for many reasons, but mostly because that’s when he makes up his mind. He knows in that moment what the morning will bring, when they start heading towards the border again. He knows that this isn’t how the story ends, driving into Mexico with Mickey as a fugitive and him with a weeks worth of pills in his back pocket.

Ian hates himself, hates the fizzling spark in his chest as he holds Mickey’s face between his hands and tells him he loves him again, before he tucks his face into his neck and breathes him in deeply. He doesn’t say anything else, and Mickey settles in his arms, with their bodies close and their breaths intertwined.

He’ll marry him someday, Ian thinks again, like he’s telling himself a tale. He’ll marry him, because he’s Mickey, and he loves him, just he won’t marry him today. Not today, because there’s a future in front of them, and it doesn’t feel like the right one.

-

The fifth time he thinks about it is in prison, early one morning before the guards are patrolling and the buzzers have sounded. Ian’s stroking his fingers through Mickey’s hair, tucked into his neck as Mickey’s frame curls small into his own. It’s not like it’s all imagined dreams and fairytales, because it’s different this time, it’s not long lost hope anymore, now it’s all playing out in front of his eyes.

It’s different than it was on the road to Mexico, Ian knows he felt something similar then - this promise of a future - except that was still a fantasy, a hypothetical. It was a path laid out ahead, but it was still a dream. This, right here, is reality, this is real, this is them, sorting out their issues, dealing with each other, and working on it.

He supposes it’s inevitable that it’s going to be different when you’re locked together in a small metal box and you’re forced to talk about the past, the problems, and the rest. At first it was all sex and pain, because Ian had missed out on Mickey’s life in Mexico and that hurt, even if it was his fault he wasn’t a part of it, and Mickey was still pissed that Ian walked away from him twice. So they didn’t talk besides little comments unintentionally slicing at the other.

But then the damn broke, because late one night, when Ian couldn’t sleep, he crawled down to Mickey’s bunk and curled up close in a way they hadn’t since that first week when they were lost in proximity and the ability to reach out and touch again. He woke Mickey up accidentally, jabbing elbows into his chest, because it turns out the beds aren’t really meant to fit two, and half-asleep, in the middle of the night, they started to talk.

Ian asked Mickey about Mexico, Mickey asked Ian why he didn’t come with him to Mexico, and they tried to put it to bed, but days later there was still more to discuss. So the cycle repeated, day after day: after monotonous tasks and a rhythmic routine that was more steady than irritating, they reconnected in the left side of their room, where there was a blind spot from the window. They pressed their mouths together desperately, then they started talking. And talking, and talking.

And it’s not like the past is forgotten and their problems are all fucking solved, but it’s better. They’re still working on it, but there’s more equal parts sex and talking than there’s ever been, so Ian thinks they’re on solid grounds. They’ve got a routine, even if it’s a shitty one, and they’ve got their own little space, even if guards patrol past the window on the hour. It’s better. They’re better. Ian thinks he likes it - fucking loves it, if he’s honest with himself.

And this time he’s not scared. Not of himself, not of Mickey, not of them and their inevitably fuck-ups and faults, because it’s not based on blind-faith anymore, that they’ll work it out, that they’ll be okay. He thinks this time he means it, they’re okay. They’re going to be okay. So it’s different, because Mickey’s not on the run and Ian’s confidently stable, and he’s going to try his hardest to remain that way, and they’re more okay than they’ve ever been.

Maybe they’re still in prison, but Ian’s had his application for patrol and Mickey’s confident he’ll follow soon after, so it’s good, it’s better. Ian’s still trying not to think about the time in between, where he’s out and Mickey’s in, because it hurts to consider a possibility where he’s going to be somewhere on the outside and Mickey’s not going to be there with him. It hurts a lot, really, so Ian tries not to think about that. Only he’s starting to learn not to avoid it either, because it’s not healthy. So when he does think about it, he thinks about knowing what he wants, he thinks about Mickey proving time after time that he does too. So he’s trying not to think about it, but when he does, he’s not scared. He knows they’ll be okay.

It’s not all roses and fairies, reimagined dreams and wishes on stars, but Ian thinks it’s as close as two fuck-ups from the Southside are going to get, and that’s enough for him. He thinks himself stupid for ever thinking otherwise. He breathes in Mickey as he shuffles against his chest, one of his hands gripping hold of Ian’s undershirt, the other trapped between their stomachs. He still smells good even if he’s disguised with unbranded prison soap - he’s all warm and familiar and Ian can’t help but smile at that. Because they’re fucking  _ here _ , and they’re together, and that counts for something.

Ian runs his hand through his hair again but stops at the nape of his neck, running his nails over the skin softly, feeling Mickey shiver against him as he laughs softly. Mickey just knocks into his stomach with his spare hand, grumbling into his neck. He’s still all sleepy-soft and Ian doesn’t want to wake him up anymore, but he can’t help it when he rearranges their bodies so Mickey’s further up the pillow and they’re facing each other so that Ian can look across his face.

Mickey blinks at him slowly, all gooey and Ian feels his heart melt just a bit more. He feels like Mickey’s going to kill him someday, just because he’s so fucking gone for him. It’s irrational, because he’s pretty sure it’s mutual, but the thought still crosses his mind. Mickey smiles at him when he blinks his eyes shut again, mumbling something that sounds like  _ “morning dickhead.”  _ Ian just smacks his chest lightly but smiles when Mickey’s face lights up further.

It’s fucking domestic, is what it is. It’s like the mornings they spent together after Mickey came out, before the bipolar hit in its entirety, where they lazed around, had nowhere to be and nothing to do. It’s like that, only they’re older now, they’re better, they’re fucking stronger and arguably more in love - Ian thinks he could make a compelling case, he reckons Mickey feels the same, but wouldn’t dare say it out loud.

And Ian loves him, so fucking much. And he’s said it before, and thought it a million times, but he’s more in love with this man than he thinks he’ll ever fucking be. And maybe he’s stupid for feeling so intensely, and maybe he’s stupid thinking they’re forever, but if he is he doesn’t care because he’s in  _ love _ , so it’s okay. The whole fucking thing is okay.

He smiles and presses their faces closer, close enough so Ian can touch his lips against Mickey’s, hearing him mumble  _ “mhmm,” _ against his own before he’s kissing back. It’s all gentle and soft, slow tongues melting together and hands simply happy to just settle. There’s no urgency, there’s just warmth.

So it’s when Ian pulls away does he think it. He’s thought it plenty while he’s been in the joint, when he’s sitting at the metal tables in the yard, when he’s standing in laundry sorting out colours, when he’s waiting for Mickey to get back to the cell after his jobs. But it’s never been as intense as this. They’ve been passing thoughts and this… this is real. Ian looks into Mickey’s face, feels him all warm, even in the dim-light morning in a fucking cell. He feels him warm and he feels his face soft. He fucking loves him.

He thinks about it, and thinks about how this time, he means it. It’s not a fantasy, it’s not a fucking idea, a concept, a fairytale - it’s not a dream, not anymore. This time Ian means it. He means it and he thinks it’s the most he’s ever meant anything. He smiles, full cheeks and shiny teeth, he smiles and thinks about Mickey shoving him off if he says anything, about him blushing and calling him  _ a fucking asshole _ , and then he thinks about getting out, how they’ll do it - because it’s a when now, not a maybe. It’s a when.

So that’s why it happens again, because Mickey’s sleep-soft and open and looking at him with glassy eyes like he’s hung the fucking moon. And this time Ian isn’t going anywhere. It’s never been further from the truth. So it’s not so much a thought, because now he means it, now it’s real, now he can put it into words that aren’t formed by mania.  _ “When we get out, I wanna marry you.” _

And then it’s out there, in the quiet settled between their bodies. It’s not scary, and it’s nothing like the proposal he’d ever imagined, ever dreamed off, but that’s okay, because he says it because he means it, and this man, his fucking boyfriend, his fucking partner, his fucking everything, is it for him. And they’re here and they’re together and it’s going to stay that way, even if there are a couple months to wait while Mickey gets out.

_ “I mean it, I wanna marry you.” _ He says again, his fingers resting against Mickey’s cheek, feeling his face twist beneath his muscles, frown and then laugh until he’s settled out into a smile. Ian thinks he’s beautiful, with his fucking stupid face and stupid body and stupid fucking  _ FUCK U-UP _ knuckles. He’s fucking beautiful and he fucking loves him and so what if he wants to marry the love of his life? Maybe it’s not a stupid thought, maybe it’s the most rational he’s ever been. Maybe this is it, it’s not just a fucking dream, a fucking fantasy, maybe this is it.

Mickey laughs then, all hearty after a seconds pause, his face red and his hands in fists in the space between them. Ian just waits, waits and smiles, because it’s fine if Mickey pushes him away, it’s fine if Mickey tells him to fuck off and shut up and it’s fine even if he stomps off and they don’t talk for a couple days, because Ian knows this is it. He knows they’re it, together. So he’s not scared anymore, he’s just waiting.

And then Mickey says  _ “whatever you want, Gallagher.”  _ And Ian thinks maybe he is dreaming, after all.

-

And then they’re here, lying on the grass out the back of the Gallagher house, with the sun blazing hot and screams from the house echoing through the estate - because sometimes things don’t really change, not as much as they’re thought to. Ian’s given Mickey his sunglasses because Mickey says his are lost, but he doesn’t really mind, he just likes the smile covering Mickey’s face as they lie back and stare at the sun.

They’re a million miles away from lying in the dugouts, and a whole world away from lying under the stars on their way to Mexico. They’re here now, and Ian’s fucking happy. He’s so happy he thinks it’s concerning, but he’s made sure Mickey doesn’t think it’s mania, so he lets it go and lets the feeling settle. It’s been a constant now for weeks, as their lives settle back down now that Mickey’s out of prison and they’ve started their jobs and gotten their Probation Officers off their backs.

He’s just fucking happy, and it’s not like it’s a new feeling, it’s just a rare one, so it matters. He’s just happy, and he’s back outside, away from the bars and metal gates, able to look at the sun without a time limit, able to kiss Mickey and fuck Mickey whenever he wants - without the possibility of getting shanked in the process. It’s just surreal, really, that they’re back here in the Southside and they’re happy, and they’re okay, and things are finally normal - or what Ian supposes is normal, as a fucking Gallagher.

Ian’s got a job as a paramedic at the end of 9-1-1 calls, and Mickey’s working security for some store down the mall. They sleep in the same bed in one of the double rooms at Ian’s and Mickey’s not-so-secretly been looking at apartments closer to their work near the centre of the city. Ian doesn’t think he’s supposed to know, but Mickey’s not exactly been subtle about it, he’s been circling apartment viewings in the fucking paper in big fuck-off red pen like he’s ancient. And Ian’s not so subtly been pointing out how they  _ need their own space _ , trying to get Mickey to tell him something. But he hasn’t budged, even if they both know what the other is playing at.

It’s just all so fucking  _ normal _ and Ian doesn’t think normal has ever felt so good. The days drift together in a haze of something warm, something happy and alive. There’s so much life around, and maybe because it’s Summer, it helps, but it just feels like this is where living begins and this is the beginning and the end wrapped into one, because he’s happy, and this is it.

So maybe Ian can blame it on that when he thinks it, just one final time, he can tell himself it’s Summer and he’s overheating and that explains why it comes out so suddenly. Deep down, the real reason is that it’s because he loves him, he loves him so much and he’s waited long enough. He doesn’t have a ring and he doesn’t have a speech, but Mickey’s in his sunglasses and Ian’s shoulders are burning and they’re fucking together, so he doesn’t suppose it matters.

_ “I wanna marry you,” _ Ian says, bluntly with a smile. Mickey barely even reacts, the twitch of his lips that resists a smile is the only give away. Ian watches him as he places the borrowed sunglasses on his head, squashing his hair, and turns to face him, flattening one of his arms under himself in the grass.

_ “You said that in prison, Gallagher, you gettin’ old, starting to repeat yourself or some shit?” _

Ian snorts, shaking his head as he keeps his gaze steady. He fucking loves Mickey. He fucking loves all of it, in that moment, he thinks nothing’s ever been better.  _ “Fuck off, this is me proposing this time - last was hypothetical - you still in?” _

Mickey shakes his head and smacks a hand out to bat at Ian’s chest. He misses and Ian laughs; Mickey only flips him off and rolls back to look up at the sun. The sunglasses slide back over his eyes as he says  _ “course I’m still fuckin’ in, bitch. Not like I’m gonna back out, do you know me at all?” _

Ian smiles and feels the whole world settle under the sun.  _ “I’ll buy you a ring tomorrow-” _

_ “I’m coming with you.” _ Mickey interrupts him, and Ian only smiles, laughing under his breath. He nods in agreement and settles onto his back again, shuffling closer next to Mickey so he can lace their hands together. He sees Mickey huffing a laugh, resisting the urge to tell him  _ that’s fucking gay _ , but he doesn’t move his hand, instead, he squeezes his fingers tight and Ian thinks it’s perfect.

It’s fucking perfect. And maybe they won’t always be, because they’re blunt and stupid and fuck-ups at heart, but Ian loves him. He fucking  _ loves _ him and they’re going to get married, so he thinks this is wishes on the stars, fairytales and some shit - dreams coming true, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Hii thank you sm for reading, I really do appreciate it. Please kudos and comment and shit too because I'll thrive.
> 
> Also my tumblr is roboticdisposition, find me there if you wanna xx


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